Dear Evan Hansen: The Sequel
by Dali Llama 12
Summary: It’s been 5 years since Connor fatefully stole Evan’s letter to his therapist, setting a chain of events into place that changed Evan’s life forever. Now he’s just trying to get through his senior year of college and become a journalist. Suddenly, in a turn of events, he is thrust into the spotlight again! Can he manage the Connor Project all on his own?
1. Chapter 1

"Welcome home!"

I look up from my laptop to see my mom at my bedroom door, still in her nurse's scrubs. She looks more tired than usual, her hair a mess as she leans against the doorframe for support. It's been hours since I was dropped off by an Uber driver, walking into the comfort (and solitude) of my humble home once more, after my first semester of senior year, but I still put on a smile for this late welcoming. Her eyes sweep over my partly unpacked luggage, a mess of shirts and supplies, as she comes in the room, stopping to pick up my favorite blue-and-white striped shirt that I threw across the floor in my frantic search for my cell phone, which I was convinced I left in my dorm room under a pile of unfinished essays. She hastily drops it, covering her nose dramatically.

"Don't you have a laundromat on the campus?" she says, thinly veiling her disgust at my lack of hygiene.

"Mom," I groan. "We've been over this."

"I know, I know. I'll let you figure it out." I stand up and let her give me a big hug.

"I missed you so much," she says, tearing up as she breaks away. Oh no. Here come the waterworks.

"I missed you too," I reply uncomfortably. She sits at the edge of my bed, kicking off her flats.

"So, did you go to any crazy parties?"

"Mom, this is me we're talking about," I laugh.

" _There's still time_ ," she mutters under her breath. I pretend not to hear. Her eyes move over my closed laptop, still humming delicately on my bed, and fall on the half-empty jar of Sunbutter next to it. She frowns and clicks her tongue. "Is this what you've been eating all day? There's food in the fridge." I wipe my mouth guiltily, smudging Sunbutter across my face. What a pathetic sight. She rolls her eyes. "Get ready, we're going to the pancake house."

She walks out of the room, leaving me to my own devices. I sigh, stretching, and stifle a yawn. I look to my desk, below the framed scholarship certificate, to the pile of graded papers from my creative writing class. The perfect hundreds stand out on the crisp, white papers like red apples in freshly fallen snow.

"You're going places, Evan," Mr. Swarovski had told me as he handed them back at the end of class right before the break. "Now it's just a matter of committing to your career plan." I had stuffed them in my frayed messenger bag, flustered at the rare praise that had befallen me, and gotten out of there as quick as I could. I smile now at the thought.

I'm getting my shoes on when I hear my phone ping loudly, cutting through the silence of my room. I pick it up. It's an alert from the Connor Project Organization, calling for Thanksgiving donations. I don't know why I still keep up with it, after all the trouble it's caused me, but I feel obligated to, like it's my problem. Even though I've tried to put the whole Connor thing behind me, it still follows me around wherever I go, both literally and figuratively. I mean, it's been a few years since the Connor Project launched and now the organization has grown so big that it has its own Board of Directors and an office in New York City that's on call 24-7. I see their sponsored commercials all the time on network television, whether I'm watching TV on my laptop or in the lounges in my dorm building. You are not alone, the commercials always say, cutting to a picture of Connor's suicide note that I wrote (long story). You will be found. Cue the dramatic music and available hotline: 1-800-4CONNOR. They don't mention my name, but I'm still all over their new website (the one that Jared made crashed after a year). Sometimes I check up on it, just to see what's going on. I turn off my phone, stuffing it into my back pocket as I make my way downstairs.

As usual, the Pancake House is crowded full of people enjoying all-day breakfast at the ripe time of 9pm. I pick the table by the bathroom, and we are handed menus by an exhausted hostess. I already know what I'm going to get, but mom flips through her menu slowly, looking for the healthiest choice. She has discarded her scrubs and flats for a nice blue cardigan fit for the occasion.

"So," she starts, closing her menu and looking at me. "How are your professors?"

"They're fine," I reply, somewhat evasively.

"And you're still set on journalism?"

"Yes." That much I'm sure.

"By the way, your father called me yesterday at my job. Says you never FaceTime anymore, and he thinks it's my fault."

"Then why doesn't he FaceTime me? Or is he too busy with his new kid?"

She frowns sympathetically. "Honey, he's really trying his best. You just have to give him a chance."

"He's never been there for me. Why should I be there for him?"

Awkward silence. She drops the subject, somewhat reluctantly. Our waitress takes it as an opportunity to take our orders. Mom orders a veggie omelette with cottage cheese, while I order a short stack of buttermilk pancakes with extra syrup, their signature dish. As the waitress saunters off, I catch sight of a dark-skinned girl in a dark blue blazer approaching the table. Alana Beck, I realize, with a sinking feeling. I'm about to crawl under the table until she passes, but it's too late. She has already seen me.

"Evan!" she calls loudly, causing some customers to turn their heads and stare at us. She looks like she hasn't slept in days, her blazer all wrinkled, and she's clutching a foam cup of steaming espresso like it's her last lifeline, sipping from it sporadically. She looks just like the Alana I knew from high school, albeit older and more professional.

I grit my teeth into a forced smile.

"Hi, Alana," I start. "How are you?"

She rubs her eyes. "Tired. Some of our phone lines crashed and we need to get a million dollars raised before Thanksgiving."

I pretend to care, nodding sympathetically. "What are you doing back at home?"

"I'm just here with my family for Thanksgiving. I'd rather be in New York City, finishing my work, but my parents said if I didn't take a break, then I'd work myself to death." She laughs nervously before continuing on, despite my lack of interest. "I don't know how much longer I can do this. You know, we can really use your help with the Connor Project. I know I kicked you off before, but people really need a sympathetic face right now, with everything that's been going on in the world." She looks at me seriously.

There's no way I can go back to the Connor Project. I've finally put that whole mess behind me and started new. If I went back to it now, it would be like a fresh wound again. I try to tell her this as nicely as possible.

"I've already got my career laid out," I say, looking to mom for support. "I'm going to become a journalist." Mom smiles obliviously, pleased to see me interacting with another human. Thanks mom.

Alana gives me an uncertain look, lost in her own thoughts. She's got the same look she had when she was about to post my note on the Connor Project website without my permission, grim and determined. She's really unnerving me now.

"Well...ok. Good luck Evan."

"Thanks," I reply, eager to be rid of her. This night is not going according to plan. She gives me one last look and walks back to where her parents are sitting across the restaurant, still clutching her espresso, just as the waitress is coming in with plates of steaming pancakes and omelettes. They smell amazing.

Later that night, I am in my room trying to get a head start on my informational writing piece, _How Technology Affects Learning_. Outside, it's completely silent, the soft moonlight streaming in, along with a cool breeze, through my open window. I put my old-fashioned Ticonderoga pencil down to the paper, only to have the tip snap, scattering fragments of lead everywhere. Cursing, I get up to use the old-fashioned sharpener near my bed. I'm thinking I should probably switch to mechanical pencils when my phone pings. It's 11:00. Who would be contacting me at this time? Apprehensively, I pick up the phone. It's an alert from the Connor Project Organization.

 _President and founder of the Connor Project, Alana Beck, steps down, naming former co-president Evan Hansen as her successor_.

End of Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey! Sorry for the long wait! I will be posting chapters more quickly now. Enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything relating to DEH :(**

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I can't believe this.

I blink, as if trying to expel the notification from my mind, but when I open my eyes, it's still there, on my computer. In a daze, I go onto the Connor Project Website. On the homepage, it's got a red announcement, standing out against the blue and white theme in stark contrast.

 **Welcome back Evan!** , it reads. It's already got hundreds of comments. Nervously, I click on them.

 **This is so awesome** , one reads. **I can't believe he's coming back.**

 **We luv u Evan** , reads yet another one. Overwhelmed, I close the website and put my head in my hands. My pity party is interrupted as a voice chat from Alana pops up on my screen. My anxiety quickly diffuses to anger and I aggressively click on the _accept_ button.

"What. The. Hell." I growl, even before she has a chance to make an introduction.

"Look, I can explain," she starts. It looks like she is in an office. I can hear car noises outside. "I told you, I can't do this anymore. I've got a scholarship to MIT now."

"How is that my problem?!" I yell, infuriated.

"This is your project," she says to me. "It's time you took responsibility for it again."I roll my eyes. She's got some nerve.

"I can't just drop everything for this. I'm in college now too. I'm supposed to become a journalist!"

"It's your project now. If you can't handle it, then shut it down." She looks down as her phone lights up. "I have to go now, my parents are waiting outside." She looks at me sympathetically. "Good luck." The screen goes blank.

When I make my way downstairs to forage for some Pop Tarts next morning, my mom is waiting for me, phone in hand, tapping her foot impatiently against the newly remodeled floor. She must have already seen the announcement.

"What is this all about?" She questions, showing me the website. I am silent.

"Alana did this," I reply.

"The girl at the pancake house?"

"Yeah."

"Are you really going to do this?" I had never really considered it.

"I-I don't know." I stutter.

"Look, honey, I'm already paying for your bachelor's degree. We can't afford to put that on hold for this. You've never even been to New York! You won't like it there." I am quiet still. She puts down her phone. "Just promise me you won't give up your dream for this girl. She shouldn't have burdened you."

"Yeah, sure," I mutter. She smiles.

"Okay then!" She chirps. She hands me a brand new box of double chocolate pop tarts. "Here. I'm glad you understand!" Somehow I feel like I'm being bribed here, but my need for pop tarts outweighs any suspicions I have. I take the box greedily, and she grabs her car keys.

"Taco night later?"

"You bet!" I feel better already.

"Okay!" She gives me a quick hug and walks out the door. Soon I her the sound of the car thundering out of the driveway.

My essay stares back at me, unrelenting. I begin another paragraph, my fingers typing away at my laptop, one step closer to a finished product. My bag is still strewn uncomfortably across the room, it's contents all over the floor. Obsessively, I open another tab and log onto the Connor Project Page. It's still full of positive comments. I realize with a sinking feeling that I will have to let all these people down soon, now that I can't handle the Project. I click back to my essay, the key to my future. That future will always be there, but this won't. I think back to my stuffy college lecture hall, filled with strangers who all share the same dream. But do I share the dream as well? Or did my mother just want it for me?

"This will be good for you, Evan," she had said when I showed doubts. "There are so many opportunities."

I realize now that finally, I can do something make up for what I did in my last year of high school, and try to make amends for the people I wronged. I close my document tab. I know what I have to do now.

By the time my mom gets home from work, the sun has already made its course below the horizon. There is a stillness in the air, like the calm before a storm. But I know there is no going back now.

"Mom," I start, as she unloads a bag from Chipotle, full of warm tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. "About earlier..." She looks up at me in surprise.

"I'm so glad you understood," she says quickly, as she unpacks the Pico de Gallo.

"Well, actually...I've decided to go through with it. I cancelled my next semester of classes already. I'm going to New York to run the organization." She is speechless, and it is so quiet that I can hear the faucet drip. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. Finally, she sits down, defeated, head in hands. Here comes the argument, I think solemnly.

"If you really want this, then go do it," she says, to my surprise.

"Just like that?"

"I want you to be happy. Maybe journalism just isn't for you." She smiles. "I've never seen you so eager to commit to something. I'm proud of you, Evan." Just like that, the argument is over before it even starts. I gather my tacos to bring upstairs. Now, all I have to do is make a few calls.

A cool breeze ruffles my hair as I lug my duffel bag to the bus stop. Birds sing loudly in the vibrant colored trees, as if they are picking up on my nervous excitement. Finally, a chance to start over and do good. A man walks by, pulling his chihuahua behind him. The air is filled with the sound of barking and laughter, as the kids run about the neighborhood, recently freed from the school day.

The sleek coach bus rolls to a stop, brakes hissing, and the double doors slide open. The driver looks down at me. I start to sweat. Do I have my pills?

"You alright there, son?" The driver asks me. I take a deep breath. I will be okay. I present my ticket, and gather my bag up, grabbing a seat in the very back, away from the few other passengers. The doors shut and just like that, the bus is off. I start to relax a little. I feel invincible, like nothing can ruin this day. All of a sudden, I catch sight of a girl about my age, with straight blond hair, wearing a dress suit. I'm about to move my seat when she turns around. My stomach drops.

It's Zoe Murphy.


	3. Chapter 3

When I was little, my dad and I would always play hide and seek. In those long, sticky months between school, the whole family would spend buggy evenings outside in the heat, my mom reading her latest obsession in romance novels, and my dad grilling our greasy, frozen burgers as we took turns hiding around the backyard. I would always hide in the most conspicuous place, which often earned a hearty laugh from my father.

"Just because you can't see me doesn't mean I can't see you, sport!" he would almost always tell me. And every time, I forgot what he told me. Including now.

As I frantically duck behind the bus seat, I realize too late that it is no use. Even if Zoe hasn't already seen me, she will have seen my embarrassing blue-dyed man purse mono-graphed with the letters **Evan H.** (' _The city is a dangerous place!', my mom had told me. 'You need to keep all of your belongings close to you!')_ Still, I pray that Zoe will not try to talk to me.

"Evan?" Zoe calls back slowly. "Is that you?" So much for my prayers. I dust off my hoodie and try to pretend that I was not just trying to become one with the chair just a few seconds ago.

"Um, yeah," I say back, blushing. Can you blame me? Her face melts from uncertainty into confusion.

"What are you doing here?"

"I-," Though I am about to tell her where I am going, it dawns on me that maybe she wouldn't like it if I told her that I was going to run the company that I helped start for her dead brother who I convinced her was my best friend. Instead, I try to make up a cover story, looking to the little bundle of brochures that sits on the top of my man purse for inspiration. The top brochure says **MOMA** in big, bold letters, and shows a picture of an abstract painting.

"At...the MOMA," I say cautiously. Her face lights up.

"Wow! I have an internship too!"

"Oh?" I say in mock interest.

"Yeah! At the Connor Project Organization!" If I had been drinking a Martini (which I doubt will ever happen if my mom has anything to say about it), I would have spit it out all over the seat in front of me, like a dramatic cartoon character. Instead, eager to be rid of new surprises, I change the subject with the first thing that comes to mind.

"So...are you seeing anyone?" I blurt, then immediately regret it. Zoe turns a shade of tomato red.

"Um...yeah. His name is Jack. He's like, really nice." She looks very uncomfortable. I'm immediately gripped with jealously of this Jack person, whoever he is. I mentally scold myself for being stupid. Why would Zoe still care about me, the person who lied to her about who he was?

"Cool," I splutter, even though I feel far from it.

* * *

My motel room smells of fabric softener and mold, not exactly what you would call an appetizing combination. Nevertheless, I force-feed myself a healthy vending machine breakfast of pop tarts and stale kettle corn, as today is my first day at the organization, and I need fuel. As I eat my breakfast, I turn on the tiny TV that stands on the dresser, absentmindedly clicking past mediocre channels. Outside my room, a man is arguing on the phone noisily, something about paying child support. Eventually I can't wait anymore, and after I down my pills, I walk the few blocks to the towering skyscraper where the organizations headquarters are located. As I try to navigate the stream of people walking to and fro without any sense of politeness or courtesy, I catch the scent of about fifty different food stands at the same time, and my deprived stomach growls hungrily. Eventually I cave, and stop at a generic Sabra hot dog stand, using my few dollars to buy a loaded chili dog which I eat quickly as I walk. By the time I reach the enormous building, my insides are churning, both from the food and my nerves.

After I am assured by reception that I am in the right place and led to the 15th floor, I find myself standing right outside of an imposing metal door. _Here goes_ , I think to myself, and psych myself up to enter.

The door flies open and smashes me in the face.

For a moment, I can only see red. In the distance, I can hear the voice of the person who is shaking me.

"Are you okay?!" a voice says, louder this time. My surroundings come into focus and I see a tanned girl a little older than me with magenta hair who is frantically trying to get me to respond.

"I'm fine," I mumble to the ground, embarrassed. She squints, then her eyes widen.

"You're Evan, aren't you! I'm Jaz, the head of media!" She gives me a toothy smile, and I can see that she has already had too much coffee this morning. "Come in!". I shuffle in the door, ignoring the looks the staff gives me as I walk in. "I'm a huge fan!" she continues. "What you did for your friend Connor, it was amazing. It inspired me to help others too!" At first, I am confused. Doesn't she know that me and Connor weren't actually friends, that I just fabricated that story? Then it hits me: these people don't know that I made my story up. They still think of me as the grief-stricken seventeen-year-old who just wanted to do good for his friend. I feel both relief and dread at the same time. Before I can come to terms with all this, Jaz leads me toward a door labeled _P_ _roduction_.

"We don't have much time today. We should start right away if that's okay with you, Mr. Hansen." she tells me.

"Just Evan is okay," I reply, flustered. "What exactly do you want me to do?" She smiles and kicks the door open to the room. I feel sorry for the poor soul who may be behind it this time. Inside, a green screen is surrounded by lights and cameras, and about a dozen interns look up at me at once as they fiddle with soundboards and cameras. One hands Jaz a latte. Self-consciously, I rake my hands through my hair. I probably should have combed it better today.

"We're going to make you go viral again," Jaz tells me excitedly, as she sips her coffee.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**


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